


take me i'm yours (because dreams are made of this)

by tremontaine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dirty Talk, Femsub, Multi, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3136532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tremontaine/pseuds/tremontaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha started it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take me i'm yours (because dreams are made of this)

**Author's Note:**

> In my head I've been calling this 'that orgy fic', which... is probably self-explanatory. Also there are wayyyy too many run-on sentences, I have a thing. 
> 
> The d/s sex is only in round one, and Steve has a flashback to a rape he witnessed during WWII at one point.

The first time he did it was maybe the third or fourth time he’d had sex, Steve thought, on the second day, early in the afternoon when he was only just figuring out a number of things: how much he liked to be fucked, how to curl his fingers just right inside Natasha to make her moan, how to jerk Bucky off. He’d been kneeling between Bucky’s knees and working him over, exploring his body with hands and eyes – never, ever would Steve complain about Bucky and Natasha’s joint need to keep the lights on when they made love – and Steve had opened his mouth and it had just all fallen out natural and easy as sin, which, of course, it was – sin, that was.

It disturbed him a little that he seemed to have such an aptitude for it. Most of his Catholic guilt had gotten lost in recent years, buried under an avalanche of other things to worry about, but every now and then it poked at him, desultorily, as if to remind him that it still existed, seeing as how Sarah Rogers god rest her soul had raised him right, and it would appreciate it if he, Steven Grant, paid it a little attention from time to time, just by way of a kind of acknowledgment of its existence; less actual guilt, more the awareness that maybe he could perhaps feel sort of guilty, if he wanted? Possibly? Sometime?

It was poking at him now, and this, he felt, was just flat-out the height of rudeness, considering the circumstances.

“Why,” said Natasha, “why are you all the way over _there_ ,” and her pretty plumb lips pouted, her hips shimmying against the mattress, long red tresses bright against the dark sheet.

“Looking at you, beautiful,” said Steve.

She sighed. “When you could be touching?” Her grin was all kinds of things: languid, lascivious, dreamy, tempting. “Gonna start without you in a minute.”

Steve opened his mouth, and the words fell out without thought or effort, as if he were a – a vending machine: give him Bucky and Natasha naked and filth fell out. “No you won’t,” he said, and watched the shiver chase over her sweet soft skin. “You’re gonna wait for me, love, aren’t you? Gonna lie there get yourself all worked up with thinking about how good we are together, wait for me to put my hands on you. God knows I can’t keep ‘em off. You look too good. You feel too good.”

“You say that and you say that and yet you’re all the way over there,” said Natasha, and she planted her feet on the mattress, knees drawn up, and spread her thighs to put her hands between them, stroked herself from her anus up to her mons, fingers pale against the black cotton of her panties. She rubbed them over her clit, laughed to herself, delighted twist of her mouth, and her legs stretched out, her feet sliding down the mattress away from her body, thighs taut when she lifted her hips off the bed – not very far – her ass still on the mattress – but it was an inviting tilt all the same, a beckoning one.

“Hey,” said Steve, grinning. “Are we playing or not?” He didn’t mind either way. Either way, what he had planned for her – what he and Bucky had planned for her – was going to happen.

She hummed, long and low and contented. “We’re playing.” Long sigh now, relaxing, and he was endlessly fascinated by the way her body melted into the bed, her limbs went lax, her smile grew distant – the otherworldly little smile she wore, usually, when they were _done_ playing, when she had given him or Bucky or both of them permission to draw her gently out of her own skin and send her floating sky-high. Steve knew that smile. He had felt it often enough on his own face.

Then it went smug, like the cat that got the cream, and wasn’t that a filthy pun. “We’re playing,” she said again, clearer though not louder. “I’m yours.”

They did things to him, those words. It was impossible to describe. His face flushed, and his hands itched to touch her, and his cock hardened up all the way, pressed against his boxer-briefs, his jeans. That was just the least of it, the physical part. Sometimes part of him wanted to run out the room – tell her _no, no, you can’t give me this, you can’t trust me with this; I break or I lose or I plain don’t deserve every damn thing that I love_ – but mostly he wanted to walk over there and sink his cock inside her and tell her to put her arms and legs around him and never, ever leave that embrace.

She was his; he could do what he wanted with her; mostly what he wanted from her and from Bucky could be summed up quite simply as _never be apart from you again_. Some days it was a physical ache in his chest.

Steve said, “Then take your hands off your cunt and cup your tits for me.”

She did, elbows pointing out to either side of her body. Her smile was still catlike, but the flutter of her eyelids and the tilt of her head on the pillows hinted of that empty quiver in your stomach, the delicious nervousness that seized you, every time, at the first order, the first moment you knew the game was all out of your hands.

“Good girl. Rub your nipples for me, circles, with your fingers.” Her face was flushing; her hips twitched but he hadn’t told her to move then, so she kept them on the mattress, still. “That getting you wet?”

“Yes. Oh yes. Well, wetter.” Flash of green under those half-closed eyelids.

He laughed. “What did it before?” He knew, or thought he knew, but he liked to hear her say it.

“You know I love it when you throw me around,” she said. “Drop me on the bed, drag all my clothes off…”

“Almost all.”

“Almost all. You gonna do something about those at any point?”

“At some point.” Steve pushed himself off the wall by the wardrobe, walked three steps across the floor to the end of the bed. “Gonna watch you get yourself off first.”

She moaned a little, anticipation, delight. “Then do I get my present?”

“Your present’s in the cab right now, sweetheart,” Steve said, and smiled to see Natasha’s eyes fly open, pupils blown. “What was that little fantasy? You in this bed, doing god alone knows what to yourself, and one of us comes in and ju-ust…” That got him a full-body shudder. “Kick the door closed, throw you down and fuck you senseless. How dare you even think about giving it up without the both of us there to watch. Go on, rub yourself. _Through_ the panties. That’s right, that’s beautiful, you’re so sensitive, so gorgeous.” Coarse red curls were poking out of the waistband, the damp cotton bunching on the downstroke. “My Tasha. Treat for you, welcome home present for Bucky…”

“As always, Captain Rogers, your tactical thinking is a thing of beauty.” Her breath was beginning to come quick; she was wide-eyed, unsmiling, lips parted and dry, waiting to be kissed.

Steve pushed his jeans and underwear down, crawled naked on the bed beside her. “Thought about being inside you when he comes through that door,” he said. “Apparently that was the original edition of the idea – tie you down like this and have you. Thought about fucking your face – I’ll kneel up here, and you’ll still have those panties on. Thought about turning you over, getting you up on your knees the way you like it, making sure you’re all on display for when he opens that door.”

She was trembling now, bright colour in her cheeks. Steve leaned over, kissed that peach perfect open mouth, merest brush of his lips over hers. “Say something,” he said quietly. “Tell me if it’s too much. All I gotta do is text Buck.”

Suddenly she laughed, the tension broken: “Make him wait in the kitchen with a hard-on and a head full of fantasies about what we’re doing in here –“

Steve laughed too. “He’d sit in the cab outside with a hard-on and wait if you told him to. And so would I.”

Natasha smiled, ecstatic, triumphant. She was still rubbing at herself, more gently now. “My boys,” she said, in a voice that held echoes of when they would play at this the other way around, she and Bucky and Steve, when Steve tied himself up and handed himself over for them to use any which way they wanted. More than a tease but still less than a challenge; one day, Steve swore to himself, one day she would no longer say it as if she were afraid one of them might ever answer _no we’re not_. “My sweet perfect thoughtful boys.” She sighed, half a moan, leisurely as Sunday morning. “It’s not too much. And – whatever way you want him to see me when he comes in, that’s the way I’ll be. For you. For James.”

He pinched her full lips gently, finger and thumb; then pushed his thumb inside her mouth, and she scraped it lightly with her teeth. “Because we’ve asked so nicely?”

“Because I’m yours.”

“Yes,” said Steve, dragged his hand down her body, slid under the waistband of her panties, nudging her hands out of the way. “Yes you are. You know what?” His fingers slipped in her slick, trapped against damp hot cotton. “You’re gonna ride me. That’s how we’ll do it. Twist around so you’re facing the door, your hair in your face and your pretty tits bouncing. Pull you down on my cock and watch you writhe. What do you think he’ll do?”

“Strip,” she said, “and get on the bed, and fuck my face while you’re in me.”

Steve’s turn to shiver. “He doesn’t need to strip for that.”

“No-o-o. Oh – Steve – Steve –“

Natasha, Natasha. He would’ve teased her but he was too busy rubbing her clit, feeling the tight hard nub against his fingertips; they would be wrinkled with her slick when he pulled his hand back out, and he would lick them clean and pull those panties off while she was still coming down from the high, toss ‘em away and go to town: open her strong shapely legs, just crawl between them and lose himself in the bliss of giving her pleasure. The last time she’d had him on his knees he’d licked her till he was just about delirious, close to crying with gladness every time she’d put her hand back in his hair and said, _again, Captain, don’t stop now, that pretty mouth of yours is mine and you know exactly where it belongs_.

Sometimes it worried him a little, in case it had something to do with the serum, in case it wasn’t normal that he felt like they could fuck, the three of them, once a day every day and Steve still wouldn’t be satisfied, would still want more. Most of the time, though, he looked at the curl of Natasha’s hair, ever-changing, ever-fascinating, and the curve of her waist, Bucky’s ass in those skinny jeans or the quick movements of his hands, and Steve would get hard like someone had flipped a switch in his brain and take them to bed and show them all the things his tongue still sometimes stumbled over saying.

Natasha never cried out when she came, playing or not. She went tense and quiet and frequently shook, all over. Steve kissed her silent mouth, her lovely face, over and over, and the words came back:

“Yes, love, so gorgeous when you come, you know, love how you twist about, tighten up all over, there, sweetheart, beautiful. So easy for it… ah, don’t flinch, sweetheart, we both know there’ll never be anyone else, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re mine, my girl, I know it, I know it. Buck knows it. No one’s hands on you but his and mine. No one’s hands ever been on me but yours and his, come to that… But fact is, you give yourself to me like this, you go sweet and easy and pliant all over… never get you off quicker than when we’re playing like this, like you’re just waiting for me to ask before you’ll give me it, give it all up to me.” He kissed her, stroked her tongue with his, coaxed her into kissing back, gentle, passionate, teasing.

“Not waiting to be asked,” she said, hazy, three steps to the left of reality already. Steve stroked her hair back from her face, ran his fingers over her nose and mouth and chin, rolled her nipples between his fingers slow and easy.

“No,” he said. “No, not you. You’re waiting to be told. How’s this for a line? Take those panties off.” Her back arched; her whole body rubbed against his. She wasn’t so far gone yet that she couldn’t turn it into a show… she would be, though. When Natasha went under she went under completely, silent unless you told her to answer, still unless you told her to move, living, it seemed, for Steve and Bucky’s touch, for the sound of their voices. Her eyes would close and her hands would fall slack, surrendering her body up to them to do whatever they wanted with it, and when she came back to herself she would be languid and happy and satisfied, just as pleased as Punch. She drew her knees up to work the panties over her ankles, one after the other.

Steve said, “That’s not gonna last.”

“Hmm?” She held the panties out, dangling off her fingertip; he grinned.

“Throw ‘em on the floor. You, Tasha, you being coherent enough for that, enough to put a show on. Take you apart, I promise.” White teeth digging into red wet lips. Steve smiled. “Come here.” She came to him; he kissed her, deep and lingering, his hands tight in her hair, smelling her shampoo, the musk of her body draped over his own. He had to shift, his cock dragging against her thigh, her hip, and she sighed into his mouth, luxurious. He got lost in it, every time, the slide and pressure and sense of exploration, the affection, the warmth.

But there was also the plan, and he ran his hands down her back and gripped her hips, pulling back, leaning up again for another kiss, another. “Like this.” The bed was at a ninety degree angle to the door, so they twisted till they were sprawled across the breadth of it, parallel to the headboard, tangled up tight in one another, Steve’s legs trapping Natasha’s, her body tucked close against his. She was humming low in her throat, that pleased, happy continuous moan that sometimes escaped her, and her hair was curtaining both their faces, now.

Steve reached up and pushed it back, sinking both his hands into it again, cupping her head. “Kneel up, Tasha.” Graceful as a dancer; she loved the ballet, he remembered suddenly. “Here.” Ride me, he’d said, but that could mean one of two things, and he wanted her taste in his mouth, her thighs bracketing his head, her weight on him, suffocating, perfect. Natasha straddled him, smiling; he stroked her curls out of the way, gentle touches of his fingers. She was wet again already, and he kissed her inner thigh and laughed.

“Love you. Oh I know, you can’t hear that, turns you all inside out, but I don’t care. I love you.” Downstairs the front door opened, closed, was locked; footsteps, Bucky moving around the hall. Steve bit back a grin. Perfect, perfect timing. OK, so he could’ve spent less time kissing her. Whatever. “Play with your tits again, just like before.”

Her breath was hitching. “Yes,” she murmured, hands going to her breasts, rubbing her nipples into tight peaks, and then he slid his hands over her waist and pulled her down to his mouth, gentle, she tasted, if anything, of salt, and the smell of her was in his mouth and nostrils heavy and heady and rich. Steve closed his eyes and parted her labia with his tongue and licked her over and over, felt her cunt clench as she pulled at her own nipples, circled her clit lightly, her slick smearing over his face. He could do this all day, he swore to god, feeling the tenseness in her thighs, the shivers that ran through her, he planted his feet on the mattress and held her tight to his mouth and put every trick she’d ever taught him to excellent use, and when Bucky finally came in the room he only knew because Natasha cried out and trembled.

“Natalya,” said Bucky’s voice, stunned; the door slammed shut, the mattress dipped, they were kissing, and a finger tapped his temple: “Mind if I borrow her?” Bucky, being Bucky, didn’t wait for an answer; Steve gasped when he pulled Natasha away, rolled to his side to watch, silver-shining fingers in red curls and a punishing kiss: “Get my pants open – ah, god –“ stepped back from the bed and turned her on her front in a single smooth movement that Steve sort of envied, he knew what was next and Natasha did too, clenched her hands in the sheet and sank her head to the mattress to hide her blissed-out smile even as Bucky was pushing her legs apart, and then – Steve could see the way Natasha seized up, still for a moment, and then went lax and pliable – he was inside her, and still fucking dressed.

And Steve being Steve, he opened his mouth and words fell out. Again.

“Look at her take it, love to watch her just melt into the bed and let you sink right in, how she opens up for it so sweet, how much she loves it. Feel good?”

“You know it does,” said Bucky. His hair was a mess, as if he’d been running his hands through it ceaselessly, his face dark with concentration, biting his bottom lip. “You know exactly how she feels, smooth and tight and hot inside. What were you even doing, she been riding your face all this time?”

Steve laughed, but it was more than a little choked. “Not nearly long enough. Ruined her panties first.” Natasha loved to hear them talk, especially to hear them talk about her, and _especially_ if one of them was in her at the time. It made her the centre of their attention, and she basked in it.

Bucky laughed too. He was holding one of Natasha’s thighs up with his right hand and his other was on her waist, trapping her the way she liked it; every slow deep roll of his hips made her shake, jarred her up the bed towards Steve even as Bucky pulled her back onto his cock. “Wish I’d seen that. Christ, I could not get back here fast enough once you texted me.” His hair was starting to fall across his forehead, his face flushed, the muscles in his arm tight with strain, a knee on the edge of the bed between Natasha's, towering over both of them, broad and strong and solid. Steve had never seen anything so fucking hot in his life.

“Natasha wanted to play,” he said. “And it seemed like a perfect opportunity.”

“It is,” said Bucky, and hit a spot that made Natasha gasp, muffled in the sheet though it was. “Have you even come?”

“No,” said Steve, and it crashed back in on him all at once: he was so hard it almost hurt, his face sticky with Natasha’s slick, breathing fast, heartbeat pounding, hot and flushed, and when he raised his hand to touch Natasha’s head it shook a little.

“Move up the bed so she can suck you off,” said Bucky, and that made Natasha whine; there wasn’t any other word for the noise she made. Her head came up and her hands flexed, and when Steve brushed her damp curls back from her face her eyes were glassy, fluttering closed with every thrust, her mouth parted in a lush little ‘o’. Three more steps to the left of reality. He smiled.

“What’s she look like,” Bucky said. His voice was going strained. He must have been at least half-hard all the way home, and Steve felt a tiny bit bad for the impulse that had made him text Bucky with the idea when Natasha had said she’d like to play.

On the other hand, just look at the results. The small fraction of his mind that had retained some semblance of rationality (the same one that was listening for intruders, calculating how best to move around the bed to grab the shield without getting in Bucky or Natasha's way) pointed out rather sourly that, as per usual when it came to Bucky and Nat, Steve's baser instincts appeared to have a stranglehold on his upstairs brain, and they weren't afraid to use it.

Faced as Steve currently was with Nat's bliss-blank face, the dirty roll of Bucky's hips and the sweetly desperate noises he was making, that small fraction was, as per usual, easy to ignore.

“Out of it,” Steve said. “Fucked out of her mind. Exactly where she wants to be, in other words.” He moved up the bed, curled himself around her; Bucky swore at the sight, and Natasha’s hair tickled Steve’s stomach and hips and thighs as she bent her head; he had a glimpse of her licking her lips wet, working moisture into her mouth, and then, her hands on his abs and thigh, she took him in, as far as she could.

Steve made a noise a little like he’d been punched, breathless, shifting closer, deeper into wet tight warmth; Bucky’s thrusts were pushing her into him, onto him, and between them her smooth flushed body seemed to curl and twine as his eyes fell closed, watching through his lashes, her hair coming alive, her hands clutching him, the vibrations in her throat as she moaned around his cock, hot and tight and perfect – Steve was moaning too, cursing, gone completely incoherent, yes there take it more love you go on more, his hands splayed across her back, cupping her head, feeling Bucky’s thrusts go through her whole body, and when she sucked on the head of his cock and twirled her tongue around it and then took him back deep in her mouth again he flung his head back and was looking into Bucky’s face as he came, groaning, down her throat.

Natasha swallowed, licked up his come, gentled him through the aftershocks that shook him just right, but she was moaning, desperate; Bucky had come too, near-simultaneous with Steve, sprawled across her back, pinning her, his forehead on her shoulder as he panted. Black jeans and sweat-damp grey t-shirt; for a moment the scene blurred in Steve’s half-closed eyes. Natasha wasn’t tall, but it was easy to forget that when she was talking, laughing, moving; now the difference between her own and Bucky’s body seemed magnified all out of proportion, sweet soft nakedness trapped under heavy black and grey – she was trying to get away from him –

She wasn’t trying to get away from him: she was coming, silent as ever, her body jerking up against Bucky’s spasmodically, he had his hand underneath her, between her legs, stroking her clit, moving his hips against her ass even as he softened inside her, a trick she loved, and Steve knew it, had done it to her often enough himself, but – but –

there had been a woman – she had been strawberry blonde and petite and Steve had been as close to concussed as he ever got, his head ringing with the explosions, the shelling, and the SS officer had yelled _kannst verdammt noch mal abwarten_ and Steve had blown his brains out all over the wall and dreamt for weeks afterwards that she had had his mother’s face.

“Vichy,” he said, his mouth running off with him again, and had to close his eyes. Then Natasha’s weight was on him and Bucky’s hands were in his hair.

“Steve!”

“Sorry,” he said, blankly – had barely even realised what he’d said – “sorry, I –"

“Shh.” Natasha wiped her red swollen lips, kissed him. “What – are you OK?”

“Jurga,” Steve blurted, “that was her name,” and then forced himself to sit upright. God, what a mess he’d made of it, pathetic. Bucky’s arms went round him; he’d stripped his t-shirt off, his jeans and underwear, and Steve fell back against his chest and closed his eyes. “Hell. I really am sorry.”

“Oh shush,” said Natasha. She climbed over both of them, fished the damp washcloth out of the bowl on the bedside table; wiped her face and Steve’s, and then kissed him again. Bucky hadn’t spoken; only kissed his temple. Natasha came into Steve’s arms and let him take her weight, rested heavy and comforting on his chest, sweat-damp skin sticking him to both of them.

“It was up in the Baltic I think,” Steve said at last, and felt Bucky stir. “We were… fightin’ over some dumb strip of land, that HYDRA had been through and then abandoned, and the Krauts moved in after ‘em. There was a town that – it was total chaos, basically, we… must have done as much looting as the Germans, and in the Mayor’s residence I found an SS officer raping a girl. Jurga. He’d ripped her clothes off and” – but Natasha was shivering – “I’m sorry –"

“The duvet,” Bucky said. She pressed Steve down against Buck and went to drag it back onto the bed, over them, and they fell into the pillows in a heap, legs tangled, blanketed, hidden, safe.

“Sorry,” she said to Steve, and this time he kissed her, his arms tight around her. He matched his breathing to theirs, eyes closed for a moment, smelt sex and sweat and the tumble-dryer smell of the duvet cover. He was too hot in seconds and perfectly content, and as the seconds ticked by the memory slowly faded into the background of his mind once more.

No one had ever hurt Natasha like that. It was probably terrible of him, but Steve clung to the fact; grounded himself with it and with the weight of her body and Bucky's strong arms around both of them. No one had ever hurt Bucky like that either. And this bed, this bed of all places was a safe place, their safe place: their neighbourhood, their house, their room, their bed, their choices. Their love, too. Outside they could all play whatever game it took to finish a mission or a day; inside, here, was safety.

“It’s very stupid,” he said at last, keeping his voice quiet, “but –"

Suddenly Bucky snorted, understanding. “Grey and black.” His long legs bracketed Steve's hips, Natasha's; the duvet slipped about as he tightened his grip on both of them, drawing his knees in. Steve could feel the rough seam of metal and flesh against his left shoulderblade, the pleasant touch of chest hair, the rise and fall of Bucky's body with his breathing, in time with Steve's.

He sighed. “Yeah. And her hair was blonde, red-blonde.”

Natasha sighed too. Her thigh was flung over Steve’s; he could feel her own come and Bucky’s sticky on her skin. Her head was pillowed on his shoulder, forehead brushing his jaw, and she took his hand in both of hers and kissed it.

“Next time I ask you to ravish me, don’t wear grey and black,” she said, and smiled even though Steve’s laugh came out choking.

“It kills me that you trust me with this,” he said.

Bucky didn’t stir. Natasha said, “Sometimes it pisses me off. Like: you _made_ me want it, and I resent it.” She laughed softly. “I don’t like feeling like I need other people for anything.”

“I know what you mean,” Steve said. “I don’t wanna need you. I love you.”

She touched his face, still smiling, ran her fingers over his nose and lips, an odd little habit that he didn’t understand but adored. They held the salt-musk smell of her cunt, still, and Steve turned his head and kissed them. She sighed, happy.

“You OK?” Bucky said at last.

“Yeah. I think so.” Steve shook his head. “I _am_ sorry, Nat.”

“Eh,” she said. “I came.” Sharp and mischievous. “If I hadn’t you’d be in trouble.”

“Sorry I compared Buck to a Nazi,” Steve added, grinning.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” said Bucky. He had a penchant for sombre colours that Steve liked to yank his chain about, though he was fairly sure it was a question of camouflage rather than any expression of existential angst. Bucky tended to work out his existential angst in either the gym or his therapist’s office. (It was disgustingly healthy, considering that Steve’s preferred method of working out his existential angst was to ask his lovers to hold him down and mark him up till he felt them in him and on him for days after.) “ _I’ve_ never had a flashback in the middle of sex.”

“How ever do you do it,” Natasha said, struggling to put on a solemn voice.

“Absolutely no idea,” said Bucky cheerfully, “which probably means it’s just a matter of time.”

Steve had to laugh. “What would you flash back to? Mary Maclaren feeling you up behind the bike sheds?” Mary Maclaren, if he remembered right, had been Bucky's first girlfriend, pretty as a picture and sweet as sugar. It had lasted three weeks before Bucky had slouched across the schoolyard with his hands in the pockets of his short trousers and announced dispiritedly that he didn't see the _point_ in girls if they didn't like playing at The Prisoner Of Zenda _or_ The Jungle Books. (Steve hadn't either. It occurred to him to wonder what Natasha's position on such entertainments might be.)

“Strictly speaking there were no bike sheds,” Bucky told Natasha.

“Metaphorical bike sheds.” She laughed. “But you did get felt up by Mary Maclaren.”

“Nah, her older brother,” said Bucky. “Then he socked me for makin’ him a fairy.” He chuckled. “Like he thought he had a switch, and I’d flipped it. He’d have spread it round the whole neighbourhood but the next day I saw him stealing from Father Imrie’s petty cash box.” He sounded judicious and self-satisfied, the point of his chin resting on Steve's head.

"I didn't know that," said Steve. 

"I broke the disclosure agreement," Bucky said. "Sorry." He turned his head and kissed Steve's temple. 

"Were there more you forgot to mention?" Natasha sounded curious. 

“It freaks me out that this interests you,” said Bucky. “You’re supposed to be jealous.”

She laughed at him. “What for? They’re all dead, and I’m the one who just got fucked through the mattress by both of you.”

"Also we were nine when he went out with Mary Maclaren," said Steve, and while Bucky and Natasha laughed so much they nearly cried Steve found himself thinking of Peggy; she had sat with him in silence after that battle and they had drunk their way through a bottle of moonshine strong enough to strip the paint from his shield. She was gone now, but she would not have grudged him this for an instant, any more than he had been able to hate her Richard. He buried his face in Nat’s hair again, chasing the fading citrus scent of her shampoo.

“Céline,” Bucky said at last. “That’s who I’d have flashbacks to. Resistance girl, looked like Dorothy Lamour, and whenever she flirted with you she’d play with her knife. If you” – he poked Steve in the ribs – “ever suggest bringing one of those to bed to use on you I’m breaking up with you.”

Steve cackled: he _remembered_ Céline. She’d run a Resistance cell whose help they had needed to track some HYDRA spies and stolen tech down, and she had been exactly Bucky’s type; the two of them had spent a week circling each other like wary cats not sure if they were about to fight or become fast friends, and then, inevitably, they had become fast friends.

Apparently they’d also fucked. Steve had missed that. (And, to be perfectly fair to the lady, he didn’t remember Céline ever holding any conversation with anyone without playing with her knife, much the same way he sometimes had to force himself to leave the shield at home when he went for groceries, or Bucky had used to practice silly gunslingers’ tricks with his sidearm.)

Natasha said, “Did she cut your clothes off you and tie you to her headboard?”

“She suggested it,” said Bucky. “I went down on her instead. Taught me a trick or two I’d never seen before,” he added thoughtfully.

“I call that a missed opportunity.”

“Hey, those were the only clothes I had at the time.”

“What sort of tricks?” Steve wondered, feeling mischievous.

“Hmm.” Bucky made a noise in his throat like the particularly contented rumble of a large cat, and Steve was absolutely one-hundred-percent positive that he was doing That Thing with his mouth, the one that made Steve want to melt into a puddle at his feet and beg him to wrap it round his cock. Or offer his own mouth up for the taking; he was neither proud nor picky. “You jonesing for a demonstration?”

“I might be,” said Steve, nuzzling, unselfconsciously, at Bucky's throat, the line of his jaw.

“If Nat gets on the edge of the bed and you kneel beside me you’ll probably have a good view.”

Nat shuddered.

“…that a _yes please now_?” said Steve. He could see it, see it perfectly, the spread of her thighs, the arch of her back, Bucky’s low voice saying _like this_ , Natasha’s moans, her tight fingers in his hair –

He was getting hard again. Round two was going to be spectacular.

“It might be,” Nat said, teasing. She kissed his lips and cheek and nose, her hair falling over his face. “After all, you cut my present a little bit short, didn’t you.”

“A little,” said Steve. “I wanted to drag you back up the bed and eat you out some more.”

Bucky shifted underneath him. “Would have fucked you while you did.”

“While Nat was all laid out across the mattress begging for it?” said Steve, and felt Natasha laugh, low and suppressed. She looked a little predatory and a lot self-satisfied, eyes shining, mouth pursed to hide her smile, and her hips were shifting, minutely, interestedly. Steve reached up to touch her mouth again; she smiled against his fingers, kissed them. “What about that pretty mouth?”

“I _like_ essentially fucking you both at once. It's one of the hottest things -”

Oh that was the best thing Steve had heard in a month of Sundays, he swore to god, and he and Nat both shot upright and twisted about to look at Bucky in the same breath.

Bucky smacked a hand over his eyes. “Didn’t mean to admit to that.”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Natasha. “All this time you hang about here indulging our weird fantasies and I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you mention having one yourself.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” said Bucky, “I have a ton of – of stuff I like and I am very well satisfied with our sex life, thank you.” It _was_ an exaggeration – Bucky suggested plenty of things, like shower sex and going down on Nat when she was wearing one of those floaty sundresses she’d started wearing this past summer, and 69’ing (a favourite of his and Steve’s particularly, given that they both loved giving head), and the thing with the mirror that had been scorching hot and would be repeated on a semi-regular basis if Steve had anything to say about it, but Bucky always managed to frame these suggestions as something they should try together, instead of something he was asking for for himself, the way Natasha and Steve needed to hand him control sometimes and let him go to town.

“No, no, no,” said Steve. “It’s too late for that, that generic crap. _Details_.”

Bucky groaned. “I knew you’d turn it into some kind of – of mission.”

“A mission to make you happy,” said Natasha, grinning. “Oh come on. It’s not fair otherwise.”

“I don’t –” said Bucky. “I mean I – sort of but – look, they’re just not that… _interesting_.”

“The mirror thing was _really interesting_ ,” said Steve, with mocking emphasis.

“Shush up,” said Natasha. “Let him talk. List of your favourite things, now.”

“Oh god,” said Bucky helplessly. “But they’re all so boring.”

“Now!”

Bucky sighed. “Fucking Steve while he’s in you. Going down on either of you. Nat pegging me – fucking you –"

“- yes, but how?” Steve demanded.

“Any which way!” Bucky sounded exasperated. “I – look – mostly, I get off on… making… you get off.” There was a faint red flush high on his cheekbones, but he looked mulish: now he'd started he'd finish it. “I like – being able to – oh, this is all coming out wrong. I like making you happy. And I don’t have a – a list of stuff I wanna try. I never _have_ had, particularly, at least not as far as I remember. I like trying things, but...” Suddenly he smiled, but it wavered a little at the edges. “But Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, but the fact that you will both stand in this room and tell me to do anything I want to you after everything I _have_ done to you –"

“Oh love,” said Steve blankly. The duvet was in a heap around his hips; he was kneeling, stock-still, by Bucky’s ankles. That had never occurred to him; never crossed his mind. Bucky was – was _Bucky_ : the most trustworthy thing Steve had ever had in his life, besides his mother. Doubly so for Nat, he was sure. “You little idiot.”

“James,” Natasha said, and slunk into Bucky’s lap. He put his arms around her and leant up to kiss her, laughing, all wry and warm.

“Told you to leave it alone.”

“I’m glad I heard it.”

“Me too.” Steve went to kiss him as well, trapping Nat between them, and she hummed and sighed. Bucky slid a hand into Steve’s hair and held him close for kiss after kiss, soft at first and comforting, and then deeper. Steve sighed and shivered and bit his lip raw watching Bucky and Natasha kiss, the wet slide of their mouths together, the half-closed eyes, the happy noises they were making. His face was hot, he was fully hard again, and there was a hollow space in his chest around which everything that was left felt shaky, fluttering, needy. Then Natasha's hands on his face, and he fell into her again, languid, unhurried, loving.

“Come and fuck me, Steve,” Natasha said at last, kissing his jaw. “Where’s the lube?”

“Oh, too late,” said Bucky. “I’m gonna go order pizza and watch TV." But the trajectory of his hand on Natasha’s back and the fact that he was hard again rather belied the words. So did the look in his eyes, smoky and covetous, and the fact that he still had hold of Steve, tight as a vice, Steve who had no intention of leaving this bed. Why would he ever want to?

“Baby, don’t be like that,” said Steve, grinning.

“Sweetheart, you can’t leave us hanging,” Natasha murmured, a teasing, seductive purr. “Come on. It’s not fair. We just wanna make you feel good, baby, you know that, don’t you? Wanna lay you down and make you come till you can’t see straight, mess you up and lick you clean, come on darlin’, you love it. You know you love it. Let us do it to you, baby, let us make you feel good.”

Bucky tipped his head back to the pillows, laughing helplessly, and there was the long stretch of throat exposed to kiss and mark up; Natasha’s laughter huffed against Bucky’s skin, and Steve suckled hickeys into his shoulder, put reddened bite marks on his collarbone, feeling the broad chest underneath him heave and the hips twist. He shifted; their cocks slid together, the brief friction a plain tease, sparking lines of fire up his spine.

“Christ,” Bucky said, laughing. “Christ, I love you. Hey, you want me to ask for something?” His fingers tightened in Steve’s hair, tugged his head up gently.

“Yeah,” Steve said, husky. “Yeah, go on, sweetheart, make you feel so good, I promise. I promise. Whatever you want.”

“Fuck me,” Bucky said, bright-eyed and smiling. “Fuck me while I eat Nat out. Or the other way round, I’m not picky, I just want you, want you both, in me, on me –“

“Anything,” Natasha said. “Any damn thing you want.”

“I want Steve to run his damn illegal mouth off.”

“Oh yes. Yes, please.”

“You really love it,” Steve murmured, half-smug, half-wondering.

“I love how it’s like you can’t even help yourself,” said Bucky, “how you look at me or Tasha and it all just comes spilling out easy as anything, like you don’t even know what you meant to say.”

“I never do,” said Steve; he kicked the duvet back again and scrambled for the lube, loth to turn his back on Natasha in Bucky’s lap, their quick biting kisses, those big hands on her hips, the way their bodies moved together. “I never do. I just gotta say it.”

“You say the most delicious things,” said Natasha, laughing, hauled him close for a kiss; then she was tumbling into the pillows beside Bucky, sprawled out on her back and tugging Bucky over with her. “Come here, love, come and kiss me while he opens you up.”

“Mmm.” Bucky slid between her thighs and leant to the left; his right hand went wandering, playing with her nipples, tracing patterns over her abdomen, along the lines of her ribs, her hip and thigh. “Come on, Steve, talk to me.”

Steve dropped the lube onto the mattress and bent over their bodies, the strong scarred lines and soft flushed skin, smiling to himself. “Well now you’ve said it I can’t think of a thing.” He kissed the scars at Bucky’s left shoulder; the line of his spine; the knife-slash on his right side, and the puckered bullet graze below it, and the jagged little cuts above his right hip where he’d fallen off a fire escape into a puddle of broken glass when they were boys. Bucky’s skin tasted sweat-salty, and the shift of muscles under Steve’s mouth was smooth and strong, endlessly fascinating. Their legs were tangled; above his head he could hear them kissing, and Natasha slid her arm round Bucky’s back and sank her fingers into Steve’s hair, rubbing circles across his scalp until he moved further down: the delicious curve of Bucky’s ass, and the strong thighs. Buck was breathing heavy, beginning to tremble.

“Want me to talk,” Steve said against the line of his thigh. “I can do that. Tell you how beautiful you are, all wrapped up in Nat; tell you how good it feels when you open me up, slide inside; tell you how I’m gonna make you feel the same way, exactly the same way. You make me selfish, you know, make me wanna invent things so you can do them to me, everything feels so good, and all I ever gotta do is ask, just smile at you and take whatever you give me, it scares me sometimes, how much I want it, how much I want you.” He was on his knees now, smearing lube over his fingers, and Natasha’s hands were urging Bucky’s thighs apart, spreading his ass for Steve; her face was flushed and her eyes were half-closed. Steve bent again and kissed her knee, drawn up by Bucky's thigh, the sweet swing of muscle up to her ass. 

Bucky hung his head, let it drop to Natasha’s shoulder; said, fiercely, “You gotta let go of that Catholic guilt, Steve,” and all three of them started laughing.

“Ass,” Steve said. “I mean, yours is particularly fine.” He rubbed his fingers over Bucky’s anus, spread the slick around, bent again and kissed Natasha's fingers, the hot skin between them, before he pushed his pointer finger inside slowly. Bucky breathed out, hot and sharp, and his body clenched tight, reflexive. “Shhhh. I’ve got you, sweetheart, I’ve always got you. Gonna make you feel so good… you’re so tight, just relax, love, relax and let Nat hold you and let me do all the work. When was the last time we even did this?”

“Ages,” Natasha said. “Coupla months, at least.” She rubbed her leg along Bucky’s, flexed her hands against the meat of his ass as Steve pushed in again, began to stroke and rub and stretch, and Bucky moaned low and deep and wriggled back onto Steve’s fingers.

“Selfish, you and me,” Steve told her. “Look how much he loves it. Oughta pay him more attention.”

“You pay me plenty of attention,” said Bucky. “If I get any more attention-paying like the text I got this afternoon I might die.”

“What did it say?” There it was – that smug little purr, low and wound up. Steve wondered if Tasha even knew she did it.

He grinned at her. “Nat wants to play, come and find us.”

“Hmm. Could be sexier.” From the woman who had spent the better part of twenty minutes writhing in his lap and had been, at the time he'd written the text, climbing the stairs ahead of him and swinging her hips in ways she knew perfectly messed with his head every time...

Steve stuck his tongue out at her and bit back a grin when she laughed at him. “Nat wants to play, am ripping her clothes off in the dining room and carrying her upstairs. Come and find us.”

“God,” said Bucky, and spread his knees still further, shifting his balance. “God almighty, it cannot seriously take this long –“

“Nat wants to play, get your ass back here and fuck her senseless – _oh_ –“ There again, the sweet shudder when Bucky entered her, the second or two she held herself still and taught before all the tense lines melted, welcoming him, drawing him in. She wrapped herself around him, curving up into his body, poked at Steve’s thigh with her toes. “You done back there?”

Steve reached out with his free hand and caught Natasha's ankle, rubbed circles around it with his thumb, felt the slide of muscle under her skin as she flexed her foot, curled her toes. “Nearly,” he said rather cruelly, and rubbed his fingers leisurely over Bucky’s prostate. 

“Fuck you very much,” Bucky said, gasping, rocking between Steve’s fingers and Natasha’s cunt, quivering, tense with desire. “Will you quit messing about and put your cock in me. Ah, god, _Natalya_.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” said Steve, smug, biting his lips so hard he was probably drawing blood, fingers buried in velvet-smooth heat, feeling Bucky’s body clutch at him and spread for him, just as Tasha’s was for Bucky. “It’s been a long time, you know, and I don’t wanna hurt you, and it’s better to –“

“He turns off his whole body to do this, doesn’t he,” said Bucky to Natasha. “It’s the only explanation. It’s a serum thing, he just shuts it all down.”

(He sort of did, actually, but it wasn't the serum. Steve had always been good at stepping out of his own head and ignoring the things his body was screaming at him.)

Natasha laughed and laughed, squirming underneath him, one hand still on his ass and the other sunk into his hair. “It’s his mouth. I don’t think he notices anything else while his mouth’s occupied. Talking. Going down on us. Whichever. Oh, oh, you feel so good, so big, c’mon Steve fill him up make him feel it, just the way I do, come on.”

“You’re both very distracting,” said Steve, curling his hands into the crease of Bucky’s hips, and then – then – the noise Bucky made was unreal, and Natasha threw her head back with a cry of her own, throaty and delighted; then Steve started to move, thrusting into Bucky, thrusting Bucky into Nat, their bodies slid up the bed and the frame of the thing creaked ominously and Natasha was gasping, cut-off little cries, counterpoint to Bucky’s laughter:

“Yeah, Steve, god that feels good, just as good as you promised love you so much, you’re incredible, so big, Jesus, splitting me open, can’t tell you how good it is –“

“My mouth is illegal,” Steve said harshly. “ _My_ mouth.” He realised, rather distantly, that he was shaking, ecstatic.

“Someone had to teach you,” said Bucky, and turned his head to the side so Steve could see him grin, sharp little smirk that dissolved into bliss on the next thrust, and the next, and the next.

Steve gasped out a laugh, lost in it, in the noises Natasha was making, the wet slap of their skin. “Don’t – don’t start, it’ll just get creepy – oh god Buck –“

“I like it,” Natasha said, and her voice was threaded with triumph. “I like looking at you and knowing no other woman’s had her hands on either of you since the Forties.”

“Jesus,” Bucky said, muffled, undone. Nat was perfectly happy to cop to being turned on by them being possessive over her, at least in this bed, but Steve wasn’t sure she knew that her being possessive over them was twice as hot.

“You kept trying to set me up,” Steve said accusingly, and his breath hitched and choked him when she arched beneath Bucky, put her hands over her head and gripped the headboard; he didn’t need to see to know what her body looked like, bowed taught and beautiful, and Bucky dropped his head and mouthed at her breasts, suckling her nipples.

“I did,” she said, “I did, I was a fucking idiot, but just _look_ what it’s got me.”

“Two for the price of one,” Bucky muttered, and the laugh that pulled through Steve was almost painful; his hands were slipping on the sweat-damp curves of Bucky’s hips, and it was taking all his concentration to keep the rhythm up, the deep, dirty grind that was shaking them both apart, both his loves. Time melted into something thick and slow as honey as they moved together. Natasha’s fingers pressed hollows into Bucky’s back, dragged red scratches over his skin like brands; his face was hidden against her shoulder, she was kissing his neck, his shoulder, breath catching on every thrust in, her legs splayed out wantonly at his hips. Bucky around Steve’s cock was perfectly tight and so beautifully hot, grinding back against him, and the way his body opened for Steve and welcomed him was poetry; it stole the breath out of his lungs and made him shake, astonished, every time; a little humble too, that after everything they had been and done to each other Bucky loved him like this, loved him this much.

He knew exactly what Bucky had meant, earlier, about what made him happy.

“Little harder,” Natasha said at last, biting her lip. “Come on, oh, please,” and they sped the rhythm up and Bucky’s right hand pushed underneath his body to touch her and Steve fell forwards a little, trembling, and she gasped and closed her eyes and twisted and came and by the way Bucky lost the rhythm so did he, seizing up tight around Steve’s cock and moaning softly through the aftershocks, and Steve – Steve could’ve but hell if he wanted to, not yet, not yet, and Bucky pressed back against him and said, “Lemme up, just a sec,” sounding wrecked as if Steve had been fucking his throat all this time, he groaned when he pulled out and Bucky rolled off Natasha, kissed her breathlessly, fell on his back on the mattress and dragged Steve with him:

“There, darlin’, come on,” his legs over Steve’s hips, half his body in Steve’s lap, “wanna see your face.” His eyes just about rolled back in his head when Steve pushed inside him, and his cock spurted, just a little, and he reached out and tugged Natasha close, held her across his chest as Steve gripped his hips and pounded him, long deep thrusts, dirty as he knew how, aiming for that sweet spot that would make Bucky moan, jolting the bed again.

Bucky’s head fell back, marked-up neck all on display; he was flushed, breathing hard, the metal arm curved across Natasha’s waist, the other fisted in the sheet above his head, perfect arch of his sweat-slick torso, eyes gone glassy with ecstasy. He was so fucking beautiful it made things tear in Steve’s chest; they were so fucking beautiful together, Bucky and Nat. Natasha’s hands wandered over his chest; she was laughing softly, the warm little giggle no one but Steve and Bucky had ever heard her make – this Steve was absolutely sure of, grass was green and sky was blue and Natasha Romanov only ever laughed like that for him, for him and Bucky, and even for them only ever in this bed, in this room where they were private and hidden and safe from all the world.

Bucky knew it too: his eyes brightened and his red, wet mouth was curled into a smile as he met Steve’s look.

“I really don’t know how we ever do anything but this,” he said, the way he’d said a thousand times before, and Steve stuttered out a laugh and said, “Neither do I, god, I love you both so much.”

“You gonna stay there forever?” Natasha said languidly, and shimmied her hips, rubbed her foot against the outside of Steve's thigh, all her sweet warm curves pressed against Bucky, incredibly tempting, asking to be caressed, kissed, sketched in blurred and intimate charcoal, over and over. 

Steve trembled. “Aiming to.” He wasn’t aiming for a damn thing except mindless pleasure, freedom, the drawn-out, satiated noises Bucky was making, the sound of that laugh out of Natasha again, burying himself in the lax, open body beneath him again, and again, and again, until Bucky was more than half-hard for the third time today and Natasha’s slim fingers were wrapped around his cock, urging him on; “Nat, another,” Steve said, rasping but a question nevertheless, and she said, “ _Yes_ , god, god knows what you do to me,” torn up with frustration and desire and love.

“Ride my face again,” Steve said, and watched her twist and sigh and rub her still-wet thighs together. This was turning into a damn orgy, and if he hadn’t been so lost in Bucky he probably would have laughed.

This part – the multiple orgasm thing, the way they could push and push and push each other to mindless, satiated exhaustion – this really was the serum’s fault.

Steve loved it.

“You better come for me first,” said Bucky lazily. “Then I am gonna fuck you.” He rolled his hips into the next thrust like a promise of heaven and Steve nearly sobbed. “Let go, darlin’, come on, let me have it, let me have it all.”

Steve had never been much good at saying _no_ to him.

The world splintered apart; Natasha petted him as he shook, as his hips twitched, and Bucky stroked his back in long caresses; then wet fingers at his anus, pushing inside just perfect, just right, Steve was limp and yielding with orgasm and it felt like seconds before they had worked the lube inside him, before he was grinding back against that touch, moaning for it like getting fucked was his purpose in life, which, to be fair, _was_ kind of how he felt right now, boneless and fucked-out and not nearly ready to be done, the less prep the better, they knew it, they both knew it, come _on_.

The trouble with being a moral, upright, well-behaved and appropriately guilty Catholic boy who didn’t spread his legs for his boyfriend to fuck him at every available opportunity and wouldn’t spend hours telling his girlfriend how good she looked when she came on his cock was that making love with Bucky and Natasha was a far, far more enjoyable kind of religious experience.

It would be a cold day in hell before Steve repented of a single second of it.

The bed was ridiculously big, but there were three of them, after all, and half the sheet was damp with sweat; it clung to Steve’s skin, visceral and rather filthy; then Nat said, laughing, “It’s no good, I can’t kneel up,” and she was sprawled against the pillows with her legs spread like a dream, the filthiest, guiltiest fantasy Steve had ever had. She was flushed and shivery, her nipples tight, her cunt glistening wet, her eyes hooded, and when she pulled Steve close by his ear he bent and kissed her navel, her ribs, her scars; when Bucky curled his fingers inside Steve he panted hotly over her skin and it made her shake and sigh and part her legs yet more.

And Steve lay between them and parted her with his thumbs and closed his eyes and licked at her, tasting Bucky, tasting her; she groaned and locked her legs over his shoulders and Bucky pushed inside him, leaned over him, pressing them together from Steve’s ass to his shoulders, Bucky must be resting his head against Natasha’s legs, and Steve cried out against Natasha’s cunt, making her writhe, and every thrust went right through his body and jolted him against her perfectly.

“Yes,” she said, her voice gone thick and throaty again, her fingers in Steve’s hair, “yes, god, love you so much, more, sweetheart, come on.” She laughed, breathless, exultant – Steve loved it when she got triumphant, as if they were a prize she’d won by hard work and sacrifice – and dropped her legs to Steve’s sides, letting Bucky lean closer, their bodies curled into a tight close C between her legs. “So pretty when you’re being fucked, and always so good to me, I can’t take it –“

But she could, of course she could, and she would and wanted to. Bucky leant up, was moving in him, quick deep thrusts that shook him apart, made him twist and grind back and tremble, stretched so good, filled up just perfect, his cock rubbing against the sheet, wet with pre-come again already; one more, and then he’d be wrecked. Steve licked and kissed and stroked Natasha and ate Bucky’s come out of her and played with her clit, buried in her, Bucky buried in him, held perfectly between them; balanced like this he went under again, no such thing as time, or the world beyond this bed…

“The only thing is, he’s not talking,” said Natasha, struggling to make her voice regretful instead of breathless with pleasure. “I love it when he talks. Shakes me all up inside, every filthy word. One day I wanna find out if I can come just from listening to you both talk.” Christ, god, yes, Steve would sign up for that in a heartbeat. He groaned, wet his lips again, curled his tongue inside her. “Think the fantasies are my favourite, listen to him talk about what he wants to do to us when he’s busy with something else entirely, god, like there’s no end to it, no end to this, ever.” Her thighs tensed and tightened. “Never be done." They never would be, never. Her voice caught on it, close to a sob. "Never. But you could read me the phone book, I swear to god, love the sound of your voice when we’re like this, love when you lose control of that accent, go all deep and blurred and _mine_.”

Bucky was laughing, strained. “Yours, god, yes, you know it. You want talking to? I’ll talk to you. We gotta go grocery shopping tomorrow – ah!” He broke off, hissed, losing the rhythm for a second when she tugged on his hair. “Ah, don’t do that – no, it’s OK, it’s OK – love you, Natalya, god.” She sighed to hear it, Steve could feel her cunt clenching, getting wetter; she must be playing with her tits. He slid his hand up her body to cup them, pull at her nipples, and she took his fingers and put them where she wanted them and moaned. His fingers were shaking. Bucky was pulling him apart, stroke after stroke; Steve felt heavy and pliant and full and stretched open and used and dizzy with the joy of it.

“Yeah. Pull on his hair if you gotta, he loves it, don’t you sweetheart, god, the way you look right now.” Bucky gasped. “Laying here like you’ll never move again, just keep me in you, eat Nat out forever. It’s almost as good as listenin’ to you talk.” His breath was washing hot over Steve’s neck, the words burning into his skin. “She’s right, she’s right. Nothing’s like watching that pretty, perfect butter-wouldn’t-melt mouth comin’ out with things would make _me_ blush.”

Steve had to pull back from Natasha to laugh, choked up, licking her slick from around his mouth, his hands on her unsteady, her indignant little cry burying Bucky’s words for a minute – she yanked him back and he went willing, eager – “Yeah, it’d get anyone off, but we’re the only ones who get it, Tasha and me, no one else in the world knows you do it. You want me to ask for something?” Every sentence was punctuated with a thrust that made Steve see stars behind his eyelids, pant uselessly against Natasha’s cunt. “Let me fuck you sometime in the uniform, and don’t – stop – talking – while – I’m – in – you.”

And Steve was gone again, helpless, untouched even. The vision ripped through him like something out of terrible porn, except for how fucking hot it was: himself bent over the bed with his arms trapped in the heavy Kevlar, the pants round his knees, babbling nonsense about just how much he fucking loved to take it, wanted it, never got enough of it, and Bucky in him so deep he could taste it in his throat, as deep as he was right now, fucking him through the aftershocks, leaving him a shaking mess, his skin sticking to the wet spot as he twisted against the sheet; too fucked out to properly realise what was happening when Bucky pulled out of him and pulled him out of the way so he could get his own mouth on Natasha, lick her clit over and over -

Breathing hard, Steve forced his eyes open; mostly on his back, his head against the inside of Natasha’s right thigh, Bucky over him, his cock wet with lube against Steve’s abs and so hard that surely it hurt; he felt Natasha’s orgasm run through Buck as she went silent and twisted, jerking spasmodically into Bucky’s mouth and hands, and Steve wrapped his hand around Bucky’s cock and stroked him quick and easy just the way he liked it, coaxed him into coming all across Steve’s chest.

They lay in a panting, filthy heap for perfect, exhausted hours. Natasha’s left leg was trapped underneath Bucky, and he and Steve were sprawled in the wet spot and stuck together with drying come. Slowly the world crept back in around Steve: the breeze from the always-open window, the way his heart was pounding in his chest, the noise of the old house settling around them, the dimming evening light that lay across them. His throat was dry; he really needed a drink. And to wash. And to change the sheet.

Above him, Bucky started to laugh, a low warm sound like summer holidays and ice cream at Coney Island; Steve rested his head on Bucky’s chest, remembered all the weeks – months – years he’d spent believing he would never hear that sound again, and sighed, smiling. Natasha’s fingers were back in his hair, brushing lightly. He’d looked at her sometimes and ached with how much he’d wanted to say, _quit trying to find me a date; the only girl I might want is you_ … And now he had her. Had Bucky too, in a way he’d never thought to imagine until it happened to him… nothing in his life so far could have helped him guess at this, at what it would feel like: love both requited and consummated.

“My boys,” Tasha said, exultant again, and Steve lay quiet and closed his eyes and luxuriated in it, shameless, smug and wanton.

 

 

 


End file.
